A Study in Lovelock
by N.C.Faraway
Summary: Sherlock decides to prove to John that love cannot exist at a younger age. I know, I don't normally approve Sherlock Glee fic but I've tried to do it justice. Note: Thank you all so much for your reviews so far! I have had a very very distracting time in between this and that but I want you to know that I have nearly finished writing the next bit so look out for an update soon!
1. Chapter 1

**I wouldn't normally approve of Glee/Sherlock crossover fic but this is for a close friend of mine who appreciates both. I've been promising it for her for a long time and I can't delay it anymore. I've tried to make it work but feel free to tell me if it doesn't. I'll try harder in the next part!**

Sherlock Holmes snorted.

"What now, Sherlock?" sighed an exasperated but equally amused John.

Another snort followed. John concluded that this was one of Sherlock's 'silent' days. _I just wish he'd be fucking silent during it, _he grumbled inwardly.

John shook his head and threw another pebble into the sea ahead.

"Sherlock," he said, expecting no answer, "Tell me, why, exactly, did you agree to come on holiday with me?"

He snorted once more. John sighed – his interrogation was obviously getting nowhere.

"You told me it'd be fun!" Sherlock muttered.

John smiled inwardly – he'd been getting through to him, then.

"It is fun!" he replied, digging his toes into the sand, "Lying out on a beach, staring out at the sea, eating ice cream with each other – this is what I call fun, Sherlock."

Sherlock snickered, defensively. There was a pause.

"Well, it isn't what I call it," he spat with contempt, "Look at everyone – lying out, burning themselves brown, _swimming _– not a murder in sight! Hell, I'd even settle for a theft, right now – but the only thief here is that gangly youth over there, stealing kisses from that girl next to him!"

John sighed, "They're in love, Sherlock – it's what kids in love do."

A 'pfft' sound came from the sun lounger where Sherlock was sitting.

"Young love is always insincere," he pronounced imperiously, "Look at that boy – only a moment ago, he was complimenting the girl at the fish and chip bar on her outfit – and now he's lovemaking to a completely different person."

John looked out at the smooching couple and sighed.

"True love doesn't exist in people _that _age," Sherlock concluded.

John spun round, "OK, Sherlock, now you're wrong. You can be in love when you're young! Weren't you ever _that _age, once?"

"Yes," was the answer, and John deduced that it was foolish to look into Sherlock's childhood to see any evidence of human affection.

"Alright then," said John, after a pause, "I'll bet you fifty quid that we can find one young couple who really, truly, faithfully love each other."

Sherlock snorted once again, "Don't waste your money, John."

"No," he retorted, pulling out his wallet, "Fifty quid – seventy eight cotton pickin' American doooollars over here," he drawled in a hopeless American accent. "All yours, if you can prove me wrong."

The failed imitation amused Sherlock and he arose from the sun lounger. "Fine then. It's a deal. Where do we start?"

John smiled. "We're in America, Sherlock," he smirked, "So where better than a good old fashioned American high school?"

An hour later, a black limousine pulled up outside McKinley High School and the two stepped out.

"Right," said John, "OK. I didn't quite think this part through."

"What part?"

"The part where we actually get into the school."

Sherlock huffed, impatiently, "Prospective parents, John, asking to tour the school. Follow me."

Sherlock marched up the stone steps and through the double doors, right into the central hallway of McKinley High, with John trailing, somewhat embarrassed, behind him.

"Sherlock!" John hissed, "We can't just walk in here! We have to find the headmaster or someone in charge!"

Sherlock huffed again, stroppily, "Fine!"

John looked around quickly, and then walked up to a tall, tracksuit clad figure, tapping them on the shoulder.

She spun round, her short blonde hair now revealing her to be woman, albeit a butch one. She looked down at the dwarfish John, snarling, "Is there a reason you're touching me with your dirty paws, you pathetic short-ass?"

"Um…" mumbled a clearly intimidated John, "I…we…"

"No," she interjected, "You touch me again and I'll rip your balls off. Understand?"

"Right," replied John sheepishly, "Can I speak to the person in charge please?"

"You're looking at her, short stuff," she snapped back at him. John opened his mouth to reply but at this point, an impatient Sherlock nudged him out of the way, and stood to face the woman, matching her height.

"No," Sherlock interrupted, a flawless Bronx accent eluding from his mouth, "He means he wants to talk to the principal."

Her eyebrows furrowed for a moment, "And who says I ain't the principal, sister?"

Sherlock smiled, "Well, ignoring the very obvious sporting apparel you're wearing and the whistle dangling from your neck, obviously a sign of a teacher of physical recreation, your edges of your trainers appear glossy to the eye, obviously the varnish of a wooden floor, in your case, a sports hall. The lack of attention to personal grooming – eyebrows untidy, nails unclipped, unvarnished, no sign of any makeup whatsoever, dark shadows under the eyes – suggests that you aren't in a position of public scrutiny – so not in a senior position of authority then; except, the faintest smear of concealer over a not unnoticeable spot, suggesting a repressed feminine pride, obviously garnished with the insecurity that you are and have been single up until now and probably will remain so into your old age; all of which is inconsiderable against the fact that if you dare threaten that man again, I will _shred _you to a _pulp_!"

She was silent, her head pressed firmly against Sherlock's, their eyes locked in an animalistic 'battle' position, claws retracting, as a perspiring and slightly worrisome Asian man tottered up to them.

"Thank you, Sue, for welcoming these prospective parents to the school whilst I was away," the man said, edging around her and shaking Sherlock and John by the hand.

"Sorry, you are…?" asked John, bewildered by the events of the past couple of minutes.

"Oh, I'm sorry," replied the man, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, "Principal Figgins. Welcome to our school. If you give me a moment, I'll be happy to give you the grand tour."

"Thank you," replied John, grateful for another sane person in what he was beginning to think of as a madhouse, but Sherlock was all too eager to ruin this state of composure, adding, still in a flawless American accent, "No, no, chill. We'll see ourselves around, won't we, James?"

There was a pause and an unexpected start from John as he realised Sherlock's pretence. He was about to open his mouth and come out with an atrocious Southern accent, when Sherlock popped a hand under his chin and shut his mouth, adding, "Bless him, but James can't actually answer that, he's a mute."

John's eyes widened and Figgins nodded, "Very well. If you would like to come and talk to me later on, I'll be in my office. Sue will show you the way, if you get lost." He smiled and shuffled off.

Sue's gaze narrowed at Sherlock, "I'll show you the way to Hell, sunshine."

"Thanks," replied Sherlock, "But I don't take house calls."

At that, Sherlock strode off with John running behind him. As Sue Sylvester faded behind them, John gasped. "Sherlock, that was…"

"Brilliant?" he interrupted, smiling, "Genius? Fantastic? Think of a new adjective, John."

"…Terrifying," John finished, taking a deep breath, "Maybe this wasn't the best idea."

Sherlock smiled, "Nonsense John. I'm beginning to enjoy it."

They raced down the hallway, unaware that a pair of emerald green eyes was watching their every move.

"Oh my God," said the person who possessed those eyes to the girl next to him, "Rachel, _look _at that!"

"Who is he?" Rachel replied, staring on at Sherlock, "He's beautiful. Do you think he can sing?"

He shrugged, dazed. "I think we should go investigate. You with me?"

Rachel smiled, "All the way, Kurt."

The two shook hands, confirming their resolve.

"Sherlock," said John, "First of all, where are we going? And are you aware that people are staring at us?"

"I don't care about people," Sherlock replied bluntly, racing ahead, "As for the former, we're heading for the canteen."

John sighed, "Sherlock, this wasn't what I had in mind when I said…"

"No time for that now, John," snapped Sherlock excitedly, "The cafeteria, the centre of teenage life!"

Sherlock pushed open the double doors in front of him. They swung open and the silence echoed and hit Sherlock in the face.

"Empty!" he cried, "I don't believe it!"

"Sherlock," said John in exasperation, "In case you hadn't noticed, it's not actually lunchtime – there'll be no one in here."

He grunted. Just then, a friendly high pitched voice chirped in, "Are you lost?"

The two turned around to face one boy and one girl, both clearly students, both grinning broadly.

"Uh, yeah," replied John, "Do you know where the way out is?"

"It's that way," replied the boy, pointing, "Hey, are you English?"

"Yes, yes, he is," interrupted Sherlock, smiling in that over-friendly, brilliantly false manner that John knew all too well, his Bronx accent still impeccable, "He's much too modest to tell you but he studied Music at the Guildhall School in London until he came to teach here."

"You've come to teach?" asked Rachel, scarcely containing her excitement.

"Yeah," replied Sherlock, "He's the new temporary singing teacher this semester."

Rachel and Kurt turned to each other, smiling, "Awesome!"

Kurt turned to Sherlock, "What do you teach?"

"Dance," replied Sherlock, and then, eyeing Kurt's designer scarf, "and Fashion, as well."

Kurt yelped with delight. "I really like your coat, by the way," he added, brushing a finger down the edge of it.

John turned to Sherlock, his mischievously gleeful eyes disguising his irritation – he felt as out of place as Mr Bean - saying, "Really? He must be the only guy in the US who wears wool in the Summer."

"I think it's just," said Kurt, running another finger down the trimming of Sherlock's scarf, "beautiful."

"Well, uh, Kurt and I," interjected Rachel, laughing a little awkwardly, "must be getting to class. But we'll be seeing you around, Mr…Mr?"

"Holmes," Sherlock replied, "But just call me Sherlock."

Rachel nodded and looked at John, expectantly.

"Atkinson," he replied, "But just call me Rowan."

Rachel smiled and began to retreat, dragging a love-struck Kurt behind her.

"Sherlock," said John, faking a friendly smile, "Can I talk to you in here for a minute?" He ushered Sherlock into the empty canteen.

"What the HELL do you think we're playing at here?" he shouted, when Rachel and Kurt had gone and were safely out of earshot.

"Look," explained Sherlock, "We have to find some way of justifying our continued presence here – after all, prospective parents aren't going to spend the whole day in the school."

"Yeah, and just what the hell are we going to do when someone comes along and asks us what we're doing?"

"We'll say the same thing as we did just now."

"No, I mean, what if a teacher comes and stops us?"

"Then we say sorry and turn out our pockets," Sherlock chuckled, and began to walk off. John sighed in exasperation but he couldn't help smiling – _Sherlock is actually beginning to have fun and no one has been killed_. His thoughts turned back to Sue. _Yet, anyway. _

"Kurt, what are you doing?"

"What?" Kurt replied to Rachel, avoiding a jab in the side from her, "It's a natural attraction."

"Kurt, you're with Blaine!" she chastised.

Kurt shrugged, "So?"

Rachel sighed, "Do you still want to be with him?"

"Of course," Kurt replied, looking into her eyes.

"Then you've got to keep it under control with the new dance teacher."

"Blaine doesn't need to know," Kurt retorted, "And you can't tell him, promise?"

Rachel grunted in frustration. Kurt locked his little finger around hers.

"Promise?"

Rachel sighed. "Promise."

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" said John.

"I'm getting into character," replied Sherlock, pulling off his shirt and rummaging around in the costume cupboard.

"And just what are we doing here, exactly?" he continued, staring at the, now shirtless, Sherlock, leaping around the small closet they were in.

"High school costume cupboards," replied Sherlock, darting about excitedly, "Nothing like them. Full of bits and bobs and props and costumes and useless tat which no one in the world could possibly need – except me. Ah, this'll do!"

He picked up a bright orange sleeveless vest. John sighed. Sherlock slipped it on over a pair of tracksuit bottoms that he'd already donned.

"How do I look?"

John looked him up and down and stifled a few giggles. Sherlock frowned and turned away, looking into the mirror, "There's something missing though."

He dipped into a large, chaotic box in the corner and pulled out a long silver chain.

"Dog-tags," he remarked, and slung it round his neck.

"Sherlock," said John, "You look ridiculous – you'll stick out like a sore thumb!"

"Sometimes, John," he replied, "The best way to fit in is to stick out." He paused for a moment, having surveyed his outward appearance in the mirror, and then exhaled.

"Right then," he said, "Your turn."

In a few minutes' time and much protestation later, John and Sherlock emerged from the cupboard.

"I don't believe this," he said, scratching at his arm, "I'm wearing tweeds and a waistcoat in the middle of an Ohio Summer."

"Oh shut up," snapped Sherlock, walking down the corridor with him.

"You're OK, you're wearing practically nothing," John continued, "This thing is hot and itchy. Why couldn't I just have worn what I was wearing before, anyway?"

"They're American, they have stereotypical preconceptions about the English. It's best that you fit to that stereotype."

"Is this your idea of roleplay?"

"Of course not," smirked Sherlock, "It's yours."

John's mouth opened to protest but Sherlock simply winked at him.

"Come on, I know you looked," he said, feeling his vest between his fingers, "Though I didn't think sweaty dance teacher was your type."

John could say nothing but his involuntary smile betrayed his feelings and he began to blush inadvertently. Embarrassed, he tried to change the subject, "And just what are we planning to do now, Sherlock?"

"Now," he said, "We get to work. You take a lesson, I'll take a lesson. We'll try and find one couple to focus on. Then we'll put them to the test. See you at lunchtime, back at the cafeteria."

"Sherlock, we can't just walk in on someone else's lesson."

"Of course not," he replied, "We'll walk into our own."

Before John had time to ask what he meant, Sherlock had reached into the door of another classroom, pulled out a chair, and had mounted it in the centre of the corridor.

"All students who take dance classes should convene in the gymnasium now," yelled Sherlock, in his Bronx accent, "All students who signed up for Music should convene in the auditorium."

A large multitude of students rushed past them all to each different destination. Sherlock stepped down from the chair, "Now, me to my work, and you to yours."

He began to walk away.

"Sherlock!" John hissed. Sherlock sighed and kept walking, "Sherlock!"

He kept walking and ignored the desperate, "I can't sing!" coming from John's direction.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the gym, at least twenty students staring back at him. "Right," he announced, "Anyone here who doesn't have a boyfriend or girlfriend can leave now."

There was a stunned silence and no one moved.

"No, no," he continued, "I'm serious. Out. Now." He began to usher a few of them out. The number of students decreased somewhat, before Sherlock made his way over to the giant boom-box in the corner of the gym.

"Right now," he said, "Let's get you all moving to…" he read off one of the CDs lying nearby, "Zumba Party Anthems 2012."

_Zumba, _his brilliant mind raced, _Latin American fitness. Dance based with minor aerobic activity. Moves highly suggestive. _He raised an eyebrow.


	2. Chapter 2

Meanwhile, John was scratching his head. _It's OK, _he told himself, _no one's going to show up to this. _He pushed open the doors of the auditorium. A whole row of students eagerly looked back at him. He dipped out again. "Oh God," he said to himself, "I can't do this." But the thought of losing his fifty quid gave him confidence and a part of him was eager to see what Sherlock was planning to do. He re-entered the auditorium. He looked at the eager, smiling students, recognising Rachel's face among the small group, and grinned.

"Hello, class," he said, with a grimace. He hesitated for a few moments as six students stared back at him, one of whom now folded his arms, sulking, and kicked a chair toward the door. John shrugged uncomfortably – he always felt nervous around people with mohawks.

At this point, Rachel's hand shot up, "Mr Atkinson, I think it would be a very good idea if we started by me giving a solo performance as Maria from West Side Story."

Several groans arose from the other students and the guy with the Mohawk snarled, vengefully. John gave an involuntary squeak, which happily went unnoticed by the rest of the students. He coughed. "Ah, perhaps it might be better if I learned all your names first," he suggested, nervously. _That's it, _he thought, _stall them before they actually ask me to teach them something. _

A smiling student in a red bowtie, with his hair neatly slicked back, leaned forward, gently, smiling"Mr Atkinson? Hi - I'm Blaine and I _really _like your tweeds. Do they come from Saville Row?"

John smiled. _No, _he thought, _they come from the school costume cupboard. _"No," he said, "They come from another very old fashioned English shop."

Blaine's eyes lit up, "Which one?"

John's mind blanked. "Primark."

"Go on," hollered Sherlock Holmes, "Get those booties moving!"

He had found a handily placed loudspeaker at the side of the gym and was screeching through it now as though he had been born with it. Meanwhile, a gymnasium full of students were happily grinding away on each other, and each cry of, "Fuego!" from the boombox, brought them even closer to each other. Several of the students had already stripped down to their underwear, "Because it's so damn _hot _in here, Mr H!" and even Sherlock marvelled at the dexterity of the teenage libido. "Come on!" he urged through the loudspeaker, "I'm not seeing enough pelvic movement!" The students eagerly obeyed. "Uh, Mr Holmes," chirped Kurt skeptically, a little separated from the rest, "Are these exercises really going to extend our lifespans by twenty years?"

Sherlock smiled mischievously, "Of course they will. See Brittany over there?" He pointed to a tall blonde girl who was swinging her hips maniacally in circles, while another Hispanic girl had her arms wrapped around her. "That's another five years she added there." Kurt still looked doubtful but he simply shrugged, "Well, I don't have a partner to dance with anyway."

Sherlock eyes narrowed, examining him. "Isn't your boyfriend here?"

Kurt gasped, "How did you know…"

"Doesn't matter," Sherlock interrupted in that lightning quick manner of his, "Isn't he here?"

"No," Kurt frowned. "Unless," he added, his eyes brightening with a coy twinkle, "You want to be my partner?"

Sherlock was just about to answer when the music came to an abrupt halt and he turned to see a growling Sue Sylvester staring at him, open mouthed.

"Well," she hissed in a low voice, "I congratulate you, mister. You have single handedly managed to turn a pack of degenerate children with more craven lust than a band of newly castrated male gigolos stranded inside a Carmelite nunnery, into a Latino based musical recreation of Sodom and Gemorrah that even a horny Charlie Sheen would call weird. I may never eat a taco again."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed again, "You interrupted my teaching."

"Now you see, man-chin – I'm calling you that because your chin looks like a butt and I can't be bothered to learn your real name – I have had a long and illustrious career, a career that I've worked for, over the years, involving multiple criminal convictions and one public execution that might have been a ritual killing. Hell, I even had a hand in the Bay of Pigs invasion that would have been immortalised in Billy Joel's 'We Didn't Start the Fire,' if the US government hadn't filed an international super- injunction against him; there was a legal battle and a lot of red tape – look, the point is that I don't which college for butt-faced, Irish giant anaemics you learnt to teach at but here at McKinley, it's the semester of Sue Sylvester and I will not allow you to walk in here and throw sexually deviant orgies under my nose."

Sherlock crossed his arms smugly, "You can't stop me," he said.

Sue leaned in, intimidatingly, towards him, "I told you I'd see you in Hell, sunshine."

"And I told you I would shred you to a pulp."

"I'm not interested in your short ass English boyfriend, man-chin. I've had the best of British beef, and let me tell you, Posh Spice was not happy about it. I'm here to take you down."

"And how are you going to do that?"

Sue straightened up again and raised her voice, "Put your clothes back on, class. You're all in detention."

The class sighed and there were outcries at this.

"You can't do that," Sherlock snarled, "All of you stay where you are."

"As acting principal," replied Sue smugly, "I think you'll find I can."

"Since when were you principal?"

"Since Figgins got taken sick."

"And when was that?"

"In about five minutes."

At that moment, a shriek of, "Sueeeeee!" rang through the gym and Figgins came running past them all, both hands on his crotch, all the way out through the other end of the gym.

Sherlock raised another eyebrow, "Would that have something to do with the can of laxative you have in your hand?"

Sue lifted the blue tin gleefully to her hip. "I mixed it with an ingestible skin irritant."

Sherlock scowled, "You're a monster."

Sue scowled back. "You're a man-chin." There was a pause for a moment. Then Sue smiled again, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going home to throw out my tortilla chips and burn my Gypsy Kings CD. Urgh – even the thought of Zumba makes me think of Will Schuester in a sombrero."


End file.
